


History, in parts

by kangeiko



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-29
Updated: 2009-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Delenn goes shopping and is confronted by an unwelcome truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History, in parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leyenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyenn/gifts).



No, my dear, that is not correct. I do not understand how these rumours get started! But you will listen to me, yes? You will indulge an old man. You will let me tell you the truth, though I did not see it myself and had to hear it third hand from former friends many years ago, and though my memory is not what it once was. You will indulge your Emperor, will you not, my dear?

There is a reason why that date was chosen, and it is strange, but it has absolutely nothing to do with us. Yes, it is the same date that we had that victorious push forward on Narn; it is also the same date that our third Emperor's wife was delivered of an heir, did you know? But those reasons did not weigh heavily on Delenn's mind when she chose it. For one thing, she chose an Earth date - October 16th - from the calendar observed on Babylon 5. That it may have coincided with a Centauri is coincidence. Surely the Narn are this very instant claiming that it was chosen to observe _their_ holy days. Pah. Nothing of the sort.

I was gone from the station by this time, you understand. And this story was related by Delenn herself to someone, who related it to someone else, who finally related it to an idiot with a thick skin who doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. You may know him as _Prime Minister_. So it could very well be a fabrication, designed to soothe an old man's ear. But I like to pretend it is true.

***

When this story starts, they are in the Zocalo, walking arm in arm. The times when they can do this grow ever rarer; each day draws more curious on-lookers, more interested, half-sceptical pilgrims to the stations shuttered rooms, eyes bright for any flicker from either one of them. Today, though, is a good day. Perhaps the war-tourists are all in bed with dysentery, or maybe they have decided to venture to a dance show in Down Below. In either case, she is able to walk the Zocalo unmolested, uninterrupted, her husband at her side and her arm resting comfortably across the swell of her belly.

They stop at a children's store, with bright toys and brick-a-brac on display. The shopkeeper is at their side before they have even had a chance to open their mouths. "Madame Ambassador, Mr President. So good to see you both. Are you here for something to furnish the new baby's room? How about a teddy bear? Or perhaps some swaddling clothes, specially imported from Minbar, Madame Ambassador..."

She leavesher husband to deal with the shopkeeper and negotiate the delicate twists and turns of asking for a crib without leaving with an entire nursery, and explores the rest of the store. There is indeed swaddling linen imported from Minbar, at an exorbitant mark-up. There is also left-over candy from the Brakiri Day of the Dead, or possibly some other world's death ritual, with tiny skeletons hanging from hooks near the back wall. A small Brakiri child is holding on to its mother's hand and pointing excitedly at all the unfamiliar toys.

"And that one, Mother, what about that one?"

"That is a plush animal from Earth, I believe a feline of some sort."

It carries on in this vein for a while. The child discovers toy knives and hula hoops and spinning tops, the mother haltingly explaining the uses of each one.

"And what about that one?"

"Which one, dear?"

"The doll, the wood doll with the red face."

She turns at this, the description - vague and incomplete - still tugging some small sense of familiarity in her. She sees what the child is pointing to: a crude carving of a figure, arms and legs rigid, and a face carefully painted on with red ink.

The mother hesitates, looking down at the figure. She looks up in the pause, and sees Delenn watching.

"I don't know it," she says deliberately, and looks away from Delenn. "It must be Earther."

The child nods, and moves on to the next toy (a grey doll, this time, scales easily giving its origin away). The mother shrugs slightly, almost helplessly, and puts a hand on her child's shoulder.

She should intervene, she thinks. She should go over there and say, no, it's not an Earth doll, it's not an Earth doll at all.

And what would the child say to that? _What sort of doll is it, Ambassador?_

_It's a Markab doll,_ she would say.

And the child, no more than five years old, would look up at her and ask, _who are the Markab, Ambassador?_

In her mind's eye, the child has her mouth and John's eyes.

(She says nothing.)

*

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I figure that the Alliance spent some of its hard-earned membership money building a few memorials to the honoured dead. I also figured that, sooner or later, someone would have a Markab Memorial Day, and that someone would probably be Delenn. Although as it didn't happen during the run of the show, there had to be something to remind her. *shrug*


End file.
